The Chapter of War, a Song. THE CHAPTER OF WAR, A SONG. Supposed to be sung as an Irish Ballad Singer, by the Author, in his EVENING BRUSH. THE HE Chapter of Kings, which I wrote myself, That but short was the day, We'd the Chapter of Peace in its turn. When the French first join'd in a cut-throat Band, But their King he thought fighting was all foolish fun, For his friendship and aid When the Mouse eats the Cat, he'll return. Then the Dutchman, fearing a thief in the night, That both Flemish and Dutch, By the French were caught napping, in turn. And as for the blustering Dons of Spain, Their gunpowder puffing prov'd all in vain ; Though with cracking and bouncing at first they began, But it ended, at last, with a Flash in the Pan; When, to crown their disgrace, With the French they made Peace, And to War went with Us, in their turn. The Chapter of War, a Song. The German, as steady as heart could desire, Shew'd the thing he was for, Was to see them all righted, in turn. But they, some how, got sick of it, one by one, By the Book of Kings, to do all in a jerk, But the Book of Numbers accomplish'd the work; For such were their legions, That, kill them like pigeons, Still others sprung up, in their turn! But when into Egypt they took their route, That they chang'd their notes quick, And they all wish'd for Peace, in their turn. For the Fire of Britons they saw with amaze, That the more they oppos'd it, the brighter 'twould blaze! So they curs'd the damn'd War, That had brought them there,-for To be burnt and blown up, in their turn. い The Chapter of War, a Song. While their boats all chain'd, and their ports all shut, That, like owls in a cage, they were all in a pout, And for fear of a popping they durst not pop out; And block'd up, and knock'd up, They could not tell which way to turn! So when we had made them as quomp as mice, And they, promis'd, like boys with their bottoms sore, To a brittle pye crust. When, to break it, it serves their own turn. For so tired of Peace is their Grand Cox SUL, He again turns about to attack John Bull; And the Bugaboo savage Now threatens to ravage This snug little Island, in turn. But if, to be sowing his last wild oats, He should venture, at last, to unchain his boats; Let him come, and we'll quickly find chains enough, And the Devil his Due, Will come in for, at last, in his turn! A Tribute of the Heart: addressed to Lord Dudley and Ward. A TRIBUTE OF THE HEART: Respectfully addressed to the Right Hon. Lord DUDLEY and WARD, whose unabounded Benevolence to the Poor, merits more Praises than so poor a Penman can possibly record. TITLES, their origin if back we trace, And round his brows the Coronet was twin'd, But doing good, for goodness sake alone, Those blessings they bestow, make all their own! These are thy honours, not that highly here, But that, superior to the Peer or Lord, Worth, more than Birth, ennobles peerless WARD. OR, The Unwelcome Ball. THE UNWELCOME BALL; A LESSON FOR LADIES WHO WOULD THAN WORK. ERE cotton thread or silk was worn Meer worsted hose did belles adorn, RATHER DANCE And once, at Wakefield, where, we're told, And stockings, full of holes, A martial vet'ran of renown', The day was come, the dames were dress'd, Where fools, with Fortune's favours bless'd, Their undarn'd hose of blue and pink, But objects, with a lynx's eye, And oft his optics keen did spy Those gaps above the shoe : And bent to cure them of their sloth, |